Rafael Yglesias - Fearless

She was afraid.

Afraid of sin? Afraid of love? No.

Afraid of God. That was His lesson.

She was thrilled. Doubt left her. The fear was keen, but she wasn’t cowed.

All her life she had relied on others to teach her, to explain what was right and wrong. She could fight them or could obey — she had never solved a mystery for herself.

She undressed in front of the window, a slice of cold cutting her thighs, her head warmed by the radiator blowing hot air.

Once she was naked she felt strong. She went to the sleeping Max and lay beside him, curving into the curl of his body.

Still asleep he embraced her. His clothes were cool but his face was hot. His soft hands moved slowly and lightly down her back as if they were creating, not feeling, her shape. She kissed his cheek. The eye she could see opened. The pale blue circle focused on her; her legs tingled in response. His eye was smart and cold and wary. She kissed nearer to his mouth. His lips parted. They were dry. She dabbed them with her own moist lips. Max’s hands molded her arched back, skimming her skin, beginning to form her buttocks. The whisper of his touch brought each nerve alive.

“I’m thirsty,” he whispered.

She slid up onto the pillows and brought his head to her neck. She pushed him down. His mouth closed on her nipple. He was so gentle the touch could hardly be felt at first. A hot wet drop — his tongue — circled the nipple until it hardened. Then he sucked steadily and evenly with the patient greed of a baby.

She cupped the back of his head and gradually turned him onto his back, keeping her breast at his mouth. She peered down at him and saw he looked blissful. All of her came awake, her skin stretching into life. She moved his head to the crook of her arm, unbuttoned his shirt and then edged down to open his pants. Max broke off feeding and kissed her underarm, her shoulder, burrowed into her neck, insistent and loving. She reached below and took hold of his yearning penis.

I’ve fed this big baby, Carla said to God, and now I’m going to take the man into my womb.

Max woke alone. He heard the shower running in the bathroom. He yawned and dominated the bed, stretching his arms and legs until he nearly reached all four corners. Outside it was a bright sunny morning and his body had a conviction that he was young again.

They had made love twice, after their nap and then after their late dinner — a romantic meal served in their sitting room. Max drank more than half a bottle of wine and it didn’t make him draggy or gloomy. In fact, he felt more vigorous. When they went to bed again he explored Carla’s lean supple body thoroughly, wishing to memorize every detail, because she had told him, over coffee, that it would be their last time together.

She had an exciting body, and not only because of her figure; it had energy and tension even when she lay perfectly still. Her physical responses were the same as her emotional responses — direct and passionate.

She had been blunt about why this would be their final time together. “You have a family, Max. They need you. I have a husband. He needs me.”

Max felt simple. He wondered aloud, “How do you know?”

“Anyone can tell that a wife and son would miss someone like you, Max,” she said. They were having strawberries and cream for dessert. Max had tasted one of the strawberries, but he left it unfinished because it wasn’t sweet enough. Carla ate them as though they were delicious. She cocked her head back and sucked the berry in most of the way before biting off a piece. “And Jeff’s children. They need you.”

“Jeff’s boys?” Max didn’t know why she thought of them; he didn’t think he had even mentioned them to her once.

“I know it isn’t fair, Max, but you gotta take care of them too. He was your partner. And you loved him.”

Max hesitated at her saying he loved Jeff. He had been about to dismiss her directive to take care of Jeff’s children when she said it. Max heard Jeff’s hurt tone answer him at the airport, “ We’re not second-rate, Max .” And what had he added? “ At least you’re not, Max .”

“You loved him, Max,” Carla said again. “And you miss him.”

This made him feel grief. He thought of his partner’s greyhound head, buying cheap tickets and worrying about the security of his wife and sons. He remembered his own pleasure at informing Jeff that they were going to die. He covered his face and wept into his hands.

She left the strawberries, pulled his hands away, and dried his tears with her kisses.

After that, they went to bed again. He had watched her skin meticulously — peering at every pore — desperate to memorize her forever.

When Carla came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel Max was still stretched out on the bed like Christ crucified. Her long black hair was flat against her head and down her neck, painted onto her shoulders. He had expected the morning would make her less beautiful, but she looked prettier than ever to him in the Plaza towel, rubbing at her drowned hair, and smiling with those big white teeth.

“Good morning,” she said as if it were a joke.

“How do you know Manny needs you?” Max said, resuming the previous night’s argument. He wasn’t ready to give her up.

“You don’t know him,” she said. She stopped smiling and moved toward her clothes, draped on an ugly wing chair by the window.

“They might be happier without us,” Max said, rising to his elbows.

“Maybe,” Carla said. She had picked up her red panties. She dropped the towel and quickly put them on, with hasty modesty. “But we won’t.”

Max tried to remember what had already been concealed: her whitest skin, the cheeks of her taut ass; the deep silky black V of her groin; the flat tender skin of her belly. While he made that effort more was lost. She had put her stockings on; her bra; her pale blue blouse.

“I can be happy with you, Carla,” Max argued.

“No, Max,” she said. “Think about it. You almost went crazy when you tried to run off with me. You want to be free and brave, Max, but you can’t be free of your duty to your people. Every time you try to get free of people you just get stuck to another. Like that kid you saved on the plane. Or that blond woman who came to that meeting — on a plane for Chrissake — just ’cause she might meet you.” She had finished dressing. She looked small — a young pretty Catholic girl — a stranger. “Or me.” She smiled and moved her feet together, coming to attention. “You ain’t never gonna be free of the people who love you. I’ll come see you from time to time. But no more of this good stuff.” She nodded at the bed and grinned for a second. “I got to go home now. I won’t be talking to you for a while. And don’t call me, okay? I got to make peace with my husband.”

“Wait.” Max scrambled out of bed. The looseness and strength in his body wasn’t an illusion. She had healed him somehow.

“No, no,” she pushed at his chest with both hands. They felt little and cool. “Don’t make me cry. I’m happy,” she said and he saw tears begin to well. “I don’t want to cry. Let’s say goodbye like it isn’t goodbye.”

Max saw she was determined. Nevertheless, he insisted, “I don’t want to.”

“Yes.” She touched his chest with her index finger where she imagined his heart was. “In there you do. Come on,” she moved off, almost skipping out, “say goodbye like it means nothing.” She left the room. Her voice called back. “Bye, Max. See you.”

He didn’t answer. He refused to acknowledge her going. The room felt empty. It looked ugly. She had opened the drapes before taking a shower and he could see all of the leafless park, a huge artificial rectangle of dead brown things.